His name was … and he lived in Xingping, Guangxi Province, situated on the beautiful Li River in southern China, a place where I travelled to and spent three days. Then the house down the road from him situated beside the banks of the river turned itself into a guesthouse.. and later his family decided to also follow in their footsteps. I truly felt as if I must have been one of the very first guests, let alone foreign guest, to lodge in their home. The room was recommended to me by a relative who ran the before-mentioned guesthouse down the street, the four or so rooms were either freshly renovated or still under construction, while there was as yet still no sign or characters written out front the house to indicate guests could abide here. Perhaps the family had invested much effort and capital into their new business with as yet no fruit born from it…and life was still very tough for this family of mother, father, grandfather, cousins, uncles, aunt, daughter… and son. Yes, … had a sister, an older one, and his parents were forced to pay up big money the 10 or so years ago when he, the second child, was born. His often drunk and over-proud father would refer to his one son as “Ba qian” or 8000, referring to the sum in Chinese yuan he was required to outlay on his son’s birth.
You could easily notice how … was so comfortable within the gentle company of his mother. She had welcomed me with a very Chinese reserved smile but an outstretched heart, and seemingly spent all her days toiling around the home washing, cleaning, gathering food, cooking…or helping me.
…’s father worked from dawn to dusk seven days a week beneath a thatched hut by the banks of the river that sold food, drinks and souvenirs. And when he returned at night to his family, he would find himself a certain refuge from reality with a certain rice wine he had been prodigiously brewing, he said, for the past three years out the back of their house. In many ways he was one of those normal Chinese men, at first reserved within the company of an outsider but soon enough boisterously happy and acting fiercely proud to be then walking alongside a foreign guest under the curious gaze of his fellow villagers. He was also a good Chinese father, earnestly guiding his son in attaining the skills to become a man, while at the same time granting him the freedom to learn to become one on his own.
It was this freedom that led him to, with a small wink and simple nod of his head to accede to his son’s excited intent to join his new foreign friend on my intended adventure to bicycle ride northward to the town of Yangdi. And it was this small, 12-year-old boy, who I at first perceived would turn out to be a huge burden, but whose irresistible gleam in his eyes I could not bear to dislodge, who turned out to be the most wonderful gem and inexpendable companion on my adventure.
But in fact, this was no boy. He was a young and courageous man, who earned the respect of numerous locals along the way, all amazed at the vision of his unfailing determination to follow his intended path. Young …led me along windy, bumpy tracks that never invited the use of a bicycle, let alone that of his rickety, rusted and ramshackle one that clanked and clattered consistently throughout the entire journey. He instructed me in the skills of procuring fruit and nuts from trees to satisfy our as yet unredeemed appetite, and in finding fresh springs to quench our thirst. He led me in the search for raftsmen to take us and our bikes across the river at the correct crossing points. After making it into the town Yangdi and enjoying a ride round some of its little streets, we enjoyed a home-slaughtered, cleaned and cooked meal of chicken. And then with the sky starting to blacken and the evening encroaching, my young friend and I made our way back to the river to negotiate a ride home with the raftsman. We were not expecting that those encroaching black clouds would so soon give way to a severe storm that would leave only our particular bamboo raft, bicycles and all, pacing down the now frenetic currents of the Li River
We forged an inseparable companionship with our raftsman along the way, as the three of us all braved the torrents and heavy downfall. Though it was summer our drenched bodies had quickly become very, very cold, particularly. ...was only wearing a cheap set of plastic sandals, the thinnest of cotton shorts and singlet top, but he didn’t flinch. We were both on an incredible high…
…until finally, at the very moment the sky had immersed itself into a pitch black, the young man and myself, drenched, with muddied feet and grins of delight etched across our faces, trudged wearily up the footsteps of his family’s house.But …’s joy of an amazing day with his friend was soon to turn to heartbreak on his arrival home. His inebriated father was apparently made to feel envious of the respect the young man was heaping on his new friend, and berated him every time he provided details of the feats we had achieved and obstacles we had overcome. My most awesome little friend was soon crying uncontrollably, his father acting oblivious to the significance of his son’s pain as he heaped abuse on him. And I could see that this was no happy family at all – that this boy lived in fear and, maybe even more so, his mother too. It was such a sad end to a beautiful friendship I had made with the boy, who was consequently scared to approach me for fear that his father would see and feel threatened once more. I knew I had to leave first thing the next morning and it broke my heart to do so. And I broke my promise to send … the photos we took that day, to which he was so looking forward – for fear that his father would not like them.
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